Battle Ready: Memoir of a SEAL Warrior Medic (22 page)

I looked back toward the wadi and saw a second incoming RPG, its trail heading for the vehicle in front of ours. Although I couldn’t see the outcome, metal, dirt, and rock rained down upon us. Somehow Chief was able to concentrate enough to keep the vehicle upright. The good news was short-lived, as the ridge to our left erupted in small-arms fire. I could see bullets and RPG rounds tear into the vehicles in front of us and wondered how many seconds we had until the enemy would focus their guns on us.

Time has a way of compressing and expanding in situations of extreme duress. During the first moments of the battle, I felt time slow to a crawl, and I swear I could see everything going on around me with perfect clarity. Our truck was still on all four wheels, but we weren’t moving, and that was our top priority. One of the fundamental rules of ambush is to get out of the kill zone, also known as the
X,
and Chief was doing everything in his power to do just that.

Suddenly Vic’s voice came over the radio, but it was masked by the thunderous noise from Ned’s weapon. Ali had slumped to the floorboard, giving Ned room to shift over and fire through the window. The sound of an AK-47 is loud enough to affect anyone’s hearing, but when it’s fired inside a confined space it’s deafening. He was the only one in a position to return fire, and he took full advantage by pushing his muzzle out the left rear window and unloading everything he had. I’m not sure what he was shooting at, but the sound of return fire made me feel good. Just as he put in a fresh magazine, the vehicle surged forward, throwing Ned back toward his door. Somehow Chief got us back up and running and heading off of the damn
X.

Chief punched the gas again, and the truck rocketed forward. The fire was now coming at us from our left rear, approximately thirty feet up on the ridge. It was obvious we had surprised the enemy while they were setting up, but they were quickly zeroing in their guns, and our vehicles were in the bull’s-eye. The disabled Hilux in front of us blocked our exit, leaving Chief with two choices. He could let the truck fade northwest into a small outcropping of rocks, providing him some cover but exposing Ned and me to a withering barrage of fire, or he could execute an extreme right turn and place the truck into a dry stream bed, providing me a short jump to cover but leaving him exposed. The first option followed the natural flow of the canyon and would only take a few seconds before he was safely behind a group of boulders. The second would force him to wiggle through the cab with all his gear in order to abandon the vehicle, but Chief wasn’t thinking of himself. All he cared about was giving us the best opportunity to make it.

One of us would have a long sprint into incoming fire as we tried to reach cover, while the other would have a five-yard jump to safety. We both knew what this meant. One of us was going to have a great chance at survival, while the other would be making a great sacrifice.

“Fade right, fade right!” I yelled, pointing toward the scraggly tree in front of the boulders.

“No!” he said, glancing at me. “Hang on, Doc, and be ready to bail out when this thing stops!” I knew there wasn’t going to be much time, so I put my left arm through the strap of my med pack and positioned my rifle so that it wouldn’t get in the way. When I looked up I saw Chief forcing the wheel to the right. I looked directly into his eyes.

There are times in life when we know the inevitable is near, but somehow we still try to deny it. I had experienced this a few times on the hospital wards in San Diego and in the triage area of a combat hospital in Iraq. Loved ones and medical providers, including myself, pray for miracles and work the case until the very end. We know there is no denying the outcome, but we reject death because deep down inside we know their courage is our strength. Chief knew what he was doing, and I honestly believe he thought he could make it out of the vehicle, but one thing was for sure: He’d be giving me the best chance to live.

“Get ready to bail, Doc!” He punched the gas, and the truck leaped into the streambed before stalling out.

“Bail out?” I yelled just as the front tires collided with a mound of rock and dirt.

“Go! Bail out!” Chief replied. I threw open the door and jumped out, my M-4 in my right hand while my left held the bottom of the arm strap of my medical bag as I tried to keep it on my back. As I stepped out I could hear the sonic crack of bullets all around me, too damn close for comfort. My first step hit solid surface, and I aimed for an alcove of rocks, and as I took my second stride I noticed a black object whizzing off the left side of my body armor just before I felt a slight punch to the chest. I would later learn the blur was my GPS being torn from its chest mount by an enemy round that also sliced into my magazines and grazed my chest plate. I dove behind some rocks at the edge of the alcove, and as I hit the ground I could see Ned’s door open, but there was no sign of Ned. My first priority was to return fire; I crawled quickly six feet up a rocky hill and prepared a shooting position.

As I readied my weapon, I heard Ned yelling orders to his men in his native tongue and Ali screaming shrilly from the back of the truck. Just then I thought to myself,
I need my damn smoke grenades!
They would shield everyone from view just long enough to move to cover—but my back pouch was empty due to my foolish concern about comfort. This wasn’t the time to beat up on myself; there would be plenty opportunity for that later. I needed to get rounds downrange, so I turkey-peeked over the ridge of the hill and tried to spot the enemy on the opposite side. They were backlit by the rising sun, making them nearly invisible, at least until the muzzle flashes from their PKM machine guns firing at our three vehicles gave them away.

I raised up on one knee but was careful to stay off the ridgeline to limit my exposure. I took aim through my scope and released a volley of rounds into the flashes on the opposite ridge. I don’t know if I hit anyone, but there was a brief break in the enemy’s fire before a second hail of bullets was heading my way. Their return fire was heavy but peppering the hill a few feet below the crest, giving me confidence to stand my ground until my magazine ran dry. I slid down a few more feet on my back to reload, making it easier for me to reach my magazines from my chest pouches. The first one I tried to pull was trapped in place by the rounds that tore off the GPS. I shook a second magazine loose and slammed it home. I looked over my left shoulder and saw a flood of bullets and an errant RPG round raining down on the front of the convoy. I then realized that if things didn’t start turning around none of us would make it out alive. Radio traffic was crackling in my earpiece, and I heard Vic radioing for air support while Tom was mobilizing the back of the convoy to counterattack. I then wondered where Chief was.

“Chief! Chief!” I yelled out toward my open door, but the only voice I heard was Ned telling me he’d been hit. I knew I had to get to him quickly, but I needed to suppress the enemy’s fire; otherwise we wouldn’t stand a chance. I half stood, still covered by the hill, and saw Ned lying on the rocks next to his door. It was evident he’d only taken a step or two before the machine gun fire had taken him down. He lay perpendicular to the vehicle, moaning.

“Ned!” I called out to him.

“Doc, I’m hit!” he yelled back.

I knew that I could reach him, but after assessing the situation I wasn’t so sure we’d make it to cover. His best chance for getting out of the line of fire would be for Ned to move himself. The enemy wasn’t firing at him. They had either forgotten about him or left him for dead.

“Ned, listen to me,” I yelled. He replied, then listened as I told him what to do. He paid attention to every word and pulled and rolled himself under the vehicle, where he would be somewhat protected from enemy fire.

With Ned situated and a fresh magazine in place, I slapped the bolt release home chambering a round before moving back to the top of the slope. In my mind I pictured the enemy’s position, just as I had seen it a moment before. I readied my weapon and popped over the ridge and released a volley of fire. I got off a couple of bursts into them before an enemy round smashed my front sight, causing it to explode and the rifle to kick back in my hands. Small metal shards peppered my face and ballistic glasses. Half a second later, I felt a slight impact on the side of my head that sounded as if I’d been slapped. It was a ricochet or grazing blow; a direct hit would have killed me. The rounds were too damn close, and I had to move. I crawled off the ridge, then rolled over on my back and slid down the rock bank to the outcropping near our vehicle as enemy fire continued to tear up the ridge above me. My heart was jumping out of my chest, and trickles of blood slowly rolled down my cheek.

I quickly examined my rifle, then fired a test round to ensure it worked. Except for the scope everything functioned fine. Thankfully, someone had the wisdom to put an iron sight on the top edge of the scope. It might not be very accurate but it was better than nothing. It dawned on me then that I
did
have a colored smoke grenade. It was meant for marking our position for an incoming bird, but it would do just fine under the circumstances. Knowing I could screen my movements gave me a mental lift. I immediately drew it from its holster, pulled the pin, and tossed it over the hill into the center of the wadi between the vehicles. It took a few seconds for the smoke to billow enough to conceal my movement, so I threw my aid bag onto my back and returned to the group of rocks I originally fell behind when I exited the truck.

“Chief! Chief!” I continued to call out but got no response.

Vic was coming across the radio asking for a report, but I ignored him while I crawled out to get a better look. I could see Ned nestled tightly under the vehicle, protected by the rear tire and back end of the truck. He was bleeding from the chest but was able to speak clearly between deep breaths, letting me know he was stable, at least for now. As I turned toward my door I saw Chief ’s hand hanging below the door frame. I was unsure how many minutes had gone by; it all seemed to happen so fast. If Chief was hit, I had to get to him quick, whether we had turned the tide of the battle or not.

Battlefield triage teaches a medic to separate the casualties and focus care based on overall survivability. It isn’t that simple on the front line. You can reach some men quicker or easier then others, while others are nearly impossible to retrieve due to enemy fire or location. You can’t pass by the ones with the less serious wounds; otherwise you risk destabilizing the very foundation of trust built between the solider and the medic. Then there are times like these.

I knew Ned was alive, and I could reach him much easier than Chief. I realized the chances of Chief being alive were slim, and the opportunity for Ned to bleed out was increasing with every passing minute. But Chief was more than my friend, he was American. I had no choice; I had to go after my teammate. I grabbed the Afghani radio and ordered the terps to have all the men focus their fire on the ridge directly across from me for a few minutes. I then ordered the troops in front of us to watch the northeast area so we didn’t get flanked. Once I heard the cover fire open up, I ran out, turned toward the open door, and lunged into the cab.

Chief was sprawled facedown across the seat with one arm dangling out of the passenger door. I landed on top of him and desperately tried to spin myself around in the tight space. Chief was unresponsive to my voice and the weight of my body moving over him, so I suspected he was mortally wounded, or close to it. I dropped my weapon onto the floorboard and opened the driver’s door and crawled out the other side. Once on the ground I took off my aid bag and threw it near the front tire, allowing me more freedom to move around.

I crouched by the driver’s door and pulled Chief up to a sitting position. His gear was snagged on equipment bolted to the truck, and I could see where it might have trapped him as he tried to slide across to the passenger door. I freed his gear from the snags and lowered him back down between the seat and the center console. With his left side pointed skyward I had enough room to move back into the cab while the rounds ripped into the driver’s door and back of the vehicle, making a thumping sound as shrapnel hit the ballistic blanketing. As I crawled over the seat, I could see the passenger seat where his upper torso once lay. It was full of blood, but not a drop anywhere else. I reached over and checked for a pulse, and for an instant I thought I felt a weak and thready heartbeat, but I couldn’t be sure. When I pulled my hand away, I noticed blood slowly flowing from the base of his neck. As I felt around, my finger lodged in the entrance wound. Chief had taken a shot in the neck, the bullet severing a major vein. I still believed I could save him, so I immediately reached for my personal medical kit, broke out the gauze, and began packing the wound. Enemy rounds were peppering the roof of the Humvee, and I needed to get out of there before they broke through.

Once again I called out to Ali, who was still on the floorboard behind the driver’s seat, ordering him to call for more fire support from the commandos. At the same time Vic came across our radio and assured me aircraft were inbound. I had to move but knew I would draw fire as soon as I did so. I told Ned and Ali to get as low as possible and stay put until I moved Chief to a secure area. I grabbed my smoke grenades from the dash and put one into my pouch, then blindly rolled another under the vehicle, hoping it would find its way to Ned.

“Doc, I got the smoke,” croaked Ned.

“Throw the damn thing, will you! Throw it!” I yelled, frustrated and scared by the whole damn situation. Ned pulled the pin and tossed it perfectly. His movement caused the enemy to shift fire toward the rear of the vehicle, but not before I heard the familiar soft
pop
that activates the grenade followed by the fizzing sound the canister makes as it generates its smoke. I hoped it would hold long enough to shield us from the enemy’s fire, but I feared the worst.

The smoke rose horizontally as designed and spread throughout the wadi. I pulled Chief out of the driver’s side and dragged him by his tactical vest into the ditch at the front of the vehicle. It wasn’t ideal cover, but the truck and surrounding ground protected him, and that’s all that mattered. With the safety of the smoke I unfastened his chest plate from the back of his body armor and started cutting away his clothes. I moved at lightning speed, desperately trying to find other wounds. I was determined to save the man who was willing to sacrifice his life for mine.
Where is it? Where is it?
I kept asking myself, convinced there had to be a second wound. Once I found it, I’d be able to plug the hole and turn things around, but damn it, there was no other wound. My friend had slipped away; I just hadn’t accepted it yet. The man saved my life by deliberately dumping the truck into that very ditch he now lay in, putting himself in the line of fire to allow me an escape route—and there I was, helplessly kneeling beside him, unable to bring back the teammate who saved me. As a SEAL and a medic, there is no darker feeling in one’s soul.
Crack, crack, crack.
The sounds of gunfire rang all around me. A round hit the top flap of my aid bag, and the sound snapped me back to reality. My first instinct was to cover the patient, and as I spread-eagled low to the ground, I felt an odd sensation at the back of my clothing, which I later learned was bullets tearing through my gear.